


The Cataclysmic Guest

by Tigresse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baffled John Watson, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Bubble and Squeak, Comedy, Dammit Jim, Food, Horny John Watson, Jim Moriarty is a Little Shit, Jim and his bombs, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Poor Greg Lestrade, Sebastian has given up, Shameless Smut, Slut Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23517280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tigresse/pseuds/Tigresse
Summary: Jim knows how to terrorize everyone with just words and harmless bombs.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	The Cataclysmic Guest

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of 'Master Manipulator' - You can find it here https://archiveofourown.org/works/23399554
> 
> Can be read as standalone but reading the first part will help!
> 
> Written at the request of S_IRIS 😎

Jim and Sherlock were, in several ways, very similar to each other. Often John wondered, when he was in one of those expansive good moods and forgiving moments, that had he met Jim instead of Sherlock he might have even fallen for the small, compact, svelte Irishman who was just as brilliant and just as unconventionally gorgeous as the great detective was.

It also meant that Jim could be just as annoying as Sherlock could be, sometimes even worse.

Sherlock, for some reason, had a soft corner for Jim and everyone noticed that. The two boffins, once at each other’s throats, had called a truce after a while and decided to leave other’s territories alone. That meant Jim had to take a backseat in the world of crime so his name never came up in any international crime or illegitimate transactions, thereby upholding his legit businessman avatar and allowing him to remain a resident of London. At the same time England was strictly off-limits for the criminal mastermind since it was little-Sherlock’s playground and Ice-King-Mycroft’s realm, as he liked to call it. The Holmes brothers, in return, would initiate no case or action against Jim or his right-hand-man and partner Sebastian Moran and never interfere in his ‘global-jobs’.

While all this was good and shiny, the people around Sherlock often came into Moriarty’s orbit and got themselves scared shitless or stunned speechless, depending on what the occasion was. What was even worse, sometimes Jim Moriarty loved to play games and did these things purely out of fun or because he was bored.

One such occasion was a dinner party.

The guests arrived innocently and happily, no one except for Mycroft and John holding the knowledge of Jim Moriarty being one of the guests. One of the first ones to realize this scary fact was Detective Inspector Gregory Statham Lestrade, Mycroft’s better-half, who nearly fell off his chair when Mycroft asked when Jim would be arriving.

“He-He is invited?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew it?”

“Excuse me, the Queen is calling me?”

Mycroft got up and walked up the stairs to the floor where John earlier had his room. That room had now been converted into Sherlock’s laboratory and John knew Mycroft had no interest in that messy place. This was merely a way to avoid a further question from Greg.

“The Queen???” Greg Lestrade was baffled, “He hasn’t even taken his phone….”

  
“Oh he communicates telepathically with her, yeah,” Sherlock said with one of his most ghastly ghoulish grins, snorting and chuckling at Greg’s startled expression.

“Never mind Greg,” John called out from the kitchen, “I am a long suffering member of the Holmes Brothers’ Domestic Corporation and I can tell you these brothers remember things selectively. But thank Heavens sometimes they meet their match, in James Isaac Moriarty.”

A weird and choked noise came from the upper floor and Greg quickly pulled his gun out. John did the same and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, eyebrows rising when he found the detective calmly sitting on his chair and licking at the creamy crust of some cupcakes Greg had brought in (it was a dinner party where Sherlock had manipulated others to bring in one or two dishes each, arse-kissing them into thinking they were really good at preparing those dishes or someone else at the party liked those dishes etc). “Don’t you look like the feline who had his cake and got to eat it too,” John said with a huff, “Come on man, let’s go upstairs and take a look. We need to help your brother.”

Another choked sound. Then the sound of something crashing.

“Do we have to?” Sherlock asked in a bored tone.

“Of course we must,” Greg snapped.

“Alright Grey!”

“Greg.”

“Yes Grugg, let’s go and check if a demon came out of one of my beakers or jars and attacked your insufferable husband.”

They went upstairs to find Mycroft standing there with that snobbish expression on his face, even if his skin looked paler than usual and his body language suggested he had just got a royal scare. The hallway lights were off and Mycroft was staring at the far end of the hall, where the glimmer of light from the landing didn’t quite reach, his mouth set in rigid annoyance. “Hey,” John frowned, “I remember keeping Sherlock’s lab locked and the lights here on!”

“Youdiiiiiiiiid!!!”

The lights began to strobe.

“He’s here,” Sherlock made a face but his eyes sparkled, which showed how happy he was.

Through the darkness and flickering lights they saw a suit clad figure, slowly and stealthily approaching them. As he came closer and closer the lights got steadier and steadier and revealed a handsome, sharply dressed, rather smug looking Jim Moriarty who nonchalantly handed John a remote and said, “The lighting system is now connected to this Johnny boi. Use it and not those ancient switches on the wall. Hee-hee!”

“You do realize Jimmy,” Sherlock said as they all went down the stairs, “That you do not have to break in. You are an invited guest. You have every right to walk in through the door. Oh by the way, you haven’t yet tried to break into the basement area and scaring old Hudders. Hee-hee!”

“They are both annoying to the point where I feel like thrashing them, something their mothers should have done when they were kids,” Mycroft snorted as he walked downstairs and headed straight for the bathroom. Greg, looking worried as ever about his husband, followed him. John was about to check on them when he heard the doorbell ring and, knowing that Mrs. Hudson was finishing some cooking that Sherlock had sneakily transferred on to her because he had made nothing but ‘rice’ at home, he offered to answer the door. He went down the stairwell as the knocking went on aggressively and finally he heard a familiar booming voice inside call out, ‘For God’s sake, just hurry up and open the door man or the food will be eaten by rats and mites off the street.”

“Colonel Moran sir,” he quickly grabbed some of the items from the man who towered over him, “Sorry about the delay. Mrs. Hudson is busy so I had to come down all the way….what happened now?”

“He’s here, isn’t he?” Electric blue eyes narrowed.

“Yes, your boy is here,” John snickered.

“Have you guys defused the bomb yet?”

  
“What? WHAT?”

“He broke in, right? You didn’t think he broke in just to give someone a jump-scare? He had bigger plans than that!”

John was plain dismayed and stared at his former military comrade in utter shock. “No…. You must be joking! Planting a bomb at the very house he has been invited to as a guest? For a dinner party? I thought he had stopped doing all those things Seb. I thought he had changed, he has left London alone and focuses on the outside world nowadays, a criminal mastermind of a true international standing and fame!”

They had reached the flat and were stepping inside. The last parts of the sentence were easily heard by Jim who was, for some strange reason, caressing Sherlock’s butt. “Oh don’t believe him Johnny boi,” Jim giggled, “I have changed but only where I see the need.”

“What is the need sir, of planting a bomb in our house?”

“Ask Sherlock.”

“First I am asking you something else,” Sebastian said, eyes narrowing in anger as he watched Jim continue his ministrations on Sherlock’s nice bubble butt, “Why are you in the process of measuring out the detective’s fetching rump?”

John had noticed that too and anger bubbled up in him when he realized that Sherlock was actually taking longer than needed to pick up some magazines from the floor, thereby allowing Jim access to his ‘butt’. He was a willing participant and not someone offended by the open groping. “Ah, it’s just to see if he can be fitted into the new sparky….the electric torture chair I built for some of my enemies who cross the line,” Jim spoke casually as if he was talking about a new cake recipe he had discovered, “This chair doesn’t kill but it gives people a makeover, in the sense that their hairs stand on ends like a well-done scruffy spike and their skins turn ashen and mouths turn a bit blue.”

“James Moriarty Moran, you stop that now.”

  
“Okie.”

“Do you always listen to him?” Sherlock frowned and straightened his back, glaring at the former military-man who was glaring right back at him.

“No, tonight he has promised me a schoolboy-professor role play and I really look forward to that, so I am not antagonizing him…..”

  
“Stop-Stop-Stop,” John said loudly, covering his ears and blushing bright red as Mrs. Hudson walked in with the food and they could hear Mr. and Mrs. Holmes downstairs, “Why am I even listening to details of your sex-life?”

Greg Lestrade made a grave mistake at that point. He decided to open his big mouth without considering repercussions. “Oh he just loves to talk about sex as if it’s something similar to oxygen, something one just can’t live without. This is a party, a dinner get-together, it involves elders and a diverse population. For once, can we ensure everything doesn’t have to drip with sexual connotations!”

“Oh shit….” Sherlock went.

“Oh shit,” John went more balefully.

“Oh SHIT,” Sebastian did a facepalm.

Jim looked squarely at Mycroft, shifted his glance over to the DI, then spoke in a wicked tone. His chocolate brown eyes glowed with mischief, “Says the one who can’t keep it in his pants even during the so-called dinner get-together? Look here Detective Inspector Lestrade, if you criticize me and my choice of jokes and references then I shall let your in-laws and Mycroft the Iceman’s parents, who have just arrived and are on their way up now, know that you happened to be kissing their son’s pee-pee in the bathroom five minutes ago.”

Pin-drop silence followed. Jim snickered, “What? I saw it happening through the keyhole. Sherlock, why does your bathroom have a keyhole? Is it because Johnny boi is a voyeur?”

***

And so the juggernaut rolled on, with Jim being an utter arse at times and at other times cracking people up completely. He somehow manipulated Molly’s mind and made her accept that the human trachea was at the back of the head and the heart was actually somewhere close to the mouth, lodged between the throat and the chin. He cornered Phil Andersen and supposedly, by some bizarre logic, hypnotized him and made him ‘give up’ a bunch of silver ware that he had in his pockets. Greg Lestrade avoided him at all costs and it was funny to see how Jim chased the poor, hapless DI around the flat while Mycroft spent most of the time in Sherlock’s bedroom, pretending to be on calls.

John looked at Sherlock as he mixed cocktails for guests, “What about the bomb he spoke of?”

“Oh that, never mind it will all be fine, no need to worry,” Sherlock seemed least bothered by it and continued to mix the cocktails for the ladies in the gathering, Mrs. Hudson, Mummy Holmes and Molly. John gave him a shoulder shove, “Hello! This is where we live. If a bomb goes off we won’t have a place to live anymore. I know you own a flat here and I can easily rent another one or even buy but you love 221B Baker street….” Sherlock stopped him mid-sentence with a withering glance, “Just stay off that beaten path Jawn. I asked him for a case and he did this for me, so I won’t really ask him to locate and defuse the bomb. It’s my fun thing to do!”

“Fun? Bomb in your own flat is fun?”

“Do you trust me?”

“I…um…yes….”

  
“Noooo, don’t.”

John almost groaned as Jim joined them. “Do not trust him! He still sends Adler his nudes, which she uses to trap bisexual women into a supposed threesome and then blackmail them.”

John looked sharply at Sherlock who immediately made a placating statement. “I do not show my face,” he said with a sheepish grin, “I do that as a favor to her and also to study the female psyche. Does a male genitalia do the same thing to the female species as a pair of boobs do for some men who are……..Oh look there, mummy is stalking daddy!”

“Mummy…..stalking…..daddy….what….who…..when…..why?” John was confused and by the time he had looked, realized he was duped and turned back, both geniuses had fled the scene. 

Eventually the party was over and John was treated to the delicious sight of a naked Sherlock who dropped his clothes in the hallway with a suggestive grin of promise. The libidinous urges in the doctor, which had been strangely stoked by the sight of Jim caressing Sherlock’s rump imagined visuals of Sebastian in a professor’s suit and glasses fucking into a squealing Jim in baggy jeans and hoodie, poured out like a dam and he picked Sherlock up and tossed him down on their new mattress.

The springy thing made Sherlock’s body bounce and before Sherlock could even say ‘Jack Robinson’ he was stripped naked. Moments later he was being fingered and the detective moaned so loud that even the aroused John had to halt and request him to keep it down to some ‘decent’ levels. Sherlock didn’t really listen though. He was mounted like a bitch and he let it go, screaming and cursing as he was made to cum again and again by his studly partner who held on to his own climax till Sherlock was begging to be allowed to fall asleep. Only then John let go and filled Sherlock up to the point where he could hear the squish and squeak of his cock moving in his own prodigious cum.

It was then that something exploded right next to their bed and John jumped back with a loud ‘Jesus Christ’, pulling Sherlock back along with himself. “So that’s where the bomb was,” Sherlock murmured, still half-asleep. “What the fuck….how did this….” John rasped, staring at the ball of smoke that had emerged from the innocuous looking pair of trousers that Sherlock had discarded on the floor, apparently that was where the bomb had been planted.

“Simple, I should have got this earlier,” Sherlock said, climbing back on the bed and curling up with a pillow, “He planted the bomb in my trouser. He called it the bubble and squeak bomb. I kept looking for the bomb in the food, thinking it’s the bubble and squeak dish.”

Precisely at that moment there was a text on John’s phone. The good doctor, still a bit shaken from the incident, looked at the text and read it out aloud. ‘Bubble and squeak stands for Sherlock’s bubble-butt and Johnny boi’s squeaky fucks as he plays in his own spunk – JM’.

“Oh, just ask him if the bomb detonated through those sounds?” Sherlock asked as if it was the most natural thing to do. When John threw a murderous glance at the detective, he quickly backtracked in his Sherlock-esque manner, “Okay, do not ask him that then.”

But they hadn’t seen the last of Jim as another message arrived shortly afterwards. ‘Johnny boy, ask Sherlylocks if he has found the cock and bull bomb yet – JM’

Needless to say John spent the entire night searching while Sherlock slept on unbothered, only to find out the next morning that ‘cock and bull’ in this case literally meant ‘cock and bull’, aka complete tosh or utter nonsense.


End file.
